


Like a Hydra

by Ledaeus



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Gore, Heavy Angst, High Chaos (Dishonored), Like many of my fics, Mild Suicidal Ideation, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Starvation, This is not Happy, Torture, at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-23 06:49:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20004076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ledaeus/pseuds/Ledaeus
Summary: Corvo still has fear, but it is not for his own life - it is for Emily’s. If he knew without doubt that the assassin had killed Emily as well, his daughter, his own flesh and blood, he would have begged for death or constructed a more robust plan to get to Burrows or Campbell or Sullivan and kill them, damned be the consequences. But that sliver of hope, the dark shadow of ‘what if’ preserves him, for better or for worse. Somewhere deep in his bones and his guts, he knows he must survive.-----A short, angsty fic looking at Corvo's mental state during the events of Dishonored 1.





	1. Corvo Attano

Although Corvo knows that Jessamine’s death will forever be more painful than any torture Burrows or Campbell can ever inflict on him, he can’t help but feel he deserves it all; every burn, every slap and every broken bone. The days of starvation and sleep deprivation and humiliation, he deserves it all. He doesn’t even know if Emily’s still alive. His _only job_ had been to protect them and he couldn’t even manage that.

The next time he is dragged to the torture chamber, he spits at Burrows.

Burrows steps back for a moment, frozen at the audacity, slowly wipes it off with the back of his hand, then balls it up and delivers an earth-shattering blow directly to Corvo’s face. He feels his nose _crunch_ beneath Burrow’s fist and cries out, feeling the familiar hot stream of blood pouring down his face and into his mouth, making him gag. Burrows looks to Morris Sullivan, Corvo’s primary tormentor, gives him an instruction that Corvo can’t hear over his own angry protests, then promptly leaves the torture chamber without so much as a second glance.

Corvo still has fear, but it is not for his own life - it is for Emily’s. If he knew without doubt that the assassin had killed Emily as well, his daughter, his own flesh and blood, he would have begged for death or constructed a more robust plan to get to Burrows or Campbell or Sullivan and kill them, damned be the consequences. But that sliver of hope, the dark shadow of _‘what if’_ preserves him, for better or for worse. Somewhere deep in his bones and his guts, he knows he must survive.

The whole thing is undignified, but Corvo knows he lost the last of his dignity months ago. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Sullivan picks up something that glints in the scant fluorescent lighting and sharpens it on a grindstone. Too exhausted and broken even to turn his head, Corvo rests his head back, stares up at the huge banner ‘Order Will Prevail’ and lets it happen. He expects to lose a finger or a toe maybe, but not his tongue.

If the blood that poured into his gasping mouth from his broken nose was a trickle, then this is a burst dam, and it hurts so much more than Corvo ever could have imagined. Throughout his incarceration, he has vowed not to cry. He has screamed, yes, but as a seasoned bodyguard, he knows sometimes this is inevitable; the human body must find some outlet under even moderate pain but _now_ he cries, a hysterical, unstable outbreak that momentarily stops Sullivan in his tracks as he walks away. He tries to call for Jessamine, for Emily, for his own mother, but only pathetic, shapeless, unintelligible gurgles come out.

He hates himself even more for it.

Sullivan, Corvo knows, has always been a psychopath and he expresses great pleasure in other people’s suffering. He hates himself for giving the man the pleasure of his own pain, but not as much as he hates himself for _failing._ Despite himself, Corvo watches as Sullivan stares at the tongue for a moment, this lifeless piece of meat, then tosses it into a bowl and discards it. Corvo weeps in pain and fury and the _utter hopelessness_ of it all. He weeps for Jessamine and Emily.

At some point he fades out, either because of the pain or the blood loss or maybe even because he is now so _broken_ that he can’t even force himself to care what they do with him anymore, and he wakes up in his cell once again, curled up in foetal.

He thinks of the only words that can bring him relief, and repeats them in his head; once, twice, thrice, and then into infinity like a mantra. He clings onto it like a life raft in a storm on the Wrenhaven, holds it close to himself and mutters and mumbles until it feels more like a protective spell to ward off his own crushing guilt.

_Jessamine, Emily, Jessamine, Emily, Jessamine, Emily._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic was inspired by [Incorrect-Dishonored-Quotes'](https://incorrect-dishonored-quotes.tumblr.com/) headcanon about Corvo developing obsessive-compulsive disorder during the events of Dishonored.
> 
> Also I was in the mood for angst, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. Samuel Beechworth

Samuel’s little riverboat crashes up and down on the waves of the Wrenhaven, skirting between the searchlights and Imperial military vessels slipping through the dark waves like bloodflies for signs of Corvo’s whereabouts. It seems like all the lights of Dunwall are shining in search of the fugitive Royal Protector, who is covered in blood and cowering at the bottom of the _Amaranth,_ cocooned in an old sheet, muttering away to himself in sounds that don’t sound like words.

Samuel frowns. He’s only known Corvo for a short time, but he doesn’t feel unsafe around him, despite all the blood on his person (most of which is quite obviously not his). As a public figure, he always seemed to shy away from the limelight, preferring to stand behind his charge, watching, silently watching. As Corvo did for Jessamine, Samuel now does for Corvo.

He gazes at Corvo’s back as he rocks with the waves in the bottom of the boat. Although Samuel has been told that Corvo is yet unaware of the fate of the Empire during his six-month stay in Coldridge, he has always known of the Rat Plague, because the guards had used it to taunt him mercilessly. According to Havelock, a key aspect of Burrows’ torture had been providing him with meals that he told Corvo were contaminated with spores of the Plague, of pieces of infected rat, and so, Corvo starved through his fear until his stomach was a mass of pure agony and his ribs pushed through papery skin and it hurt even to move, even to think, and the pain melted into nothingness. Anything, Samuel knew, would be better than undergoing the transformation from human being to Weeper with their mottled skin and oozing, open sores and groans of unbridled agony. Corvo’s stark refusal lies bare in front of him, in the bottom of his little boat.

Samuel tries to pass him a loaf of bread, but Corvo just peeks out from beneath the sheet, staring like a ghost, eyes wide, mouth knitted shut. Perplexed, Samuel tries again, and at Corvo’s repeated, wordless insistence, stores the loaf in his bag, concerned, then guides the vessel onwards to the Hound Pits Pub.

_Poor lad,_ he thinks, his mind utterly distracted by the creature shivering beneath the tarpaulin on the floor of the boat. Samuel has seen men like this, the ones who come to sea to escape traumatic experiences, or the ones found stranded and half-dead, surrounded by the corpses of their brethren. Yes, Samuel has seen men like these.

When they dock, Corvo slowly rises to his feet, hugging the tarp to himself like a blanket and steps out on juddering legs and teeters. Samuel throws out a hand and catches him by the scruff of his collar before he collapses back into the brine and pulls him back into the boat, places a guiding hand on his shoulder, tries to ignore the collarbone he can so clearly feel through the filthy military shirt and the violent flinch at the gentlest of touch. “Steady,” he says, coaxing Corvo gently through his misery as the other Loyalists gather at the dock, watching the hollow shell of a man steady himself on the dock under Samuel’s guiding touch.

If it were up to him, Samuel would send Corvo to the humble attic room he and Callista have prepared, bring him a bowl of something warm and sit with him until he falls asleep, but Havelock has other plans. He whisks Corvo away, leaving Samuel out in the darkness, standing by the stained glass door throwing fractured light onto the stony ground.


	3. Piero Joplin

Piero usually demands not to be disturbed when he crafts his labours of love in the little brick workshop, and the new arrival is no exception. Engrossed in his work, the shadow is halfway between the sliding shutters and his new whale oil milling machine before Piero spots him, a haggled figure with clothes that hang off him like rags and a gaunt face with shaking hands to match. Piero jumps - he finds himself getting twitchy as the Loyalists draw closer to their goal - but steadies himself, clamping his hand down on the mask to stop it catching on the bit. 

He prepares to lambast the Loyalist’s shiny new toy, Corvo Attano, but thinks better of it upon taking a better look at the disgraced Royal Protector. The man looks like he’s only half here, like part of his mind is still trapped in Coldridge; his eyes dart here and there, one white-knuckled fist wrapped around the foldable sword - Piero’s own work - on his belt and the other hovering in midair as if not quite sure what to do with itself. Even if Piero were to scold Corvo as he did the others who walked in uninvited, he doesn’t really believe he’ll be heard. The man’s mental state is hardly Piero’s concern as long as they’re far away from each other when he does finally snap, but Callista wouldn’t like it if he did, so he just stares blankly at Corvo.

Then the machine powers down.

Suddenly he is not so annoyed at Corvo’s presence.

“Would you get a new tank of whale oil, please, while I hold this?” He asks the question as gently as possible, as if Corvo might explode like the fresh tank of whale oil needed to power the milling machine and finish the mask that will turn Corvo from this ragged creature into a feared assassin.

Instead, Corvo looks at him for half a second, then takes off up the stairs, picking up stray papers and notes and books on his way, glancing at them and then putting them down, disinterested. Piero notices him rapping on the workbench, then the nearby table, then the iron railing as he ascends the stairs, hears him scuffing his feet on the grille above, and it isn’t long before he notices a pattern, repeated over and over again.

“Be careful,” Piero calls out, “Whale oil is explosive, an accident could be messy.”

There is a sudden scuffle and Corvo’s pattern stops abruptly, Piero hears the oil dispenser whirring and groaning away - he keeps meaning to change the chamber coupling - then Corvo returns to the stairs, his feet so light on the floor, just above Piero’s head, that he would miss it if he weren’t listening out for it, if he weren’t listening out _just in case_ Corvo makes a mistake.

With the fresh whale oil back in the milling machine, Piero finishes the mask, a cutting-edge work of art with all the trimmings and gadgets that an assassin could ever possibly need, and turns to Corvo, holding the mask out. He nearly drops the thing when Corvo jumps violently beneath his hands, his eyes wide for a split second, his hand back at the sword on his belt.

“Hold still,” Piero says, finally coaxing the mask onto his face so he can make some last-minute adjustments, and then steps back, admiring his handiwork. The effect is somewhat spoiled by Corvo’s skinny, quivering frame, and he forcibly quashes the urge to tell him to stop shaking, to get a grip, to man up.

He doubts that would go down well.

Instead, he crosses his arms and turns his head to the side, thinking of the most tactful way to tell Corvo that he wants him to leave and also that he looks dreadful. Several long seconds pass, Corvo stands in the doorway, stiff, frozen, so Piero settles with a sigh and a shake of his head.

“Before you go, Corvo,” he says, hoping Corvo will get the message, “Your bed is in the attic. And please,” he looks him up and down slowly, “get something to eat before you go.”

Corvo doesn’t even nod at him before he turns and disappears into the night leaving nothing but Piero, his workshop, and an uneasy feeling in the air.


	4. Teague Martin

Havelock joins Martin in the lounge of the Hound Pits Pub one morning not too long after Attano collects him from the stocks, and sits next to him, perched atop a rickety-looking old stool at the bar. The morning is unseasonably warm and sunny, and the usual stench of plague corpse and rat shit seems to have temporarily lifted. Martin allows himself a moment of foolishness, to think briefly that maybe the plague is beginning to burn itself out as all its victims die, but he pushes that glimmer of hope from his mind and redirects his thoughts to the task at hand.

“You look happy,” Martin finally comments as Havelock helps himself to a pint of beer, “Burrows drop dead of a heart attack overnight?”

Havelock snorts, a harsh, dry laugh that seems more derisive than genuinely amused. “Seems Pendleton and I have managed to convince Attano to take care of the Weeper problem in the sewers.” He gestures downwards with a thumb as he speaks in reference to the area directly beneath the pub. Martin hasn’t been here long enough to notice it, but some of the other Loyalists have been complaining of the groaning of something not-quite-human and the sickly sweet smell of infected flesh.

Martin raises an eyebrow. “Daring of you to send the Royal Protector to do housekeeping, especially tasks that risk his health. Because of him, we won’t have to do the dirty work.”

“He’ll be fine,” Havelock says, looking down into his pint glass where froth still clings to the sides, “he has enough remedy to last _years,_ and he’s the only one here I trust not to fuck it up.”

Martin stares at him. “I know how to use a sword too, you know. I--”

The slightest movement in the corner of Martin’s eyes and he snaps his head to the source, ready to fight. Instead, the smell of sewer water and something that smells like blood hits him in the face and he fights not to retch. Corvo, pale and silent like a ghost, hovers in the doorway, looking at them from the safety of the coat that he hangs onto so diligently despite its poor fit, staring.

Something about this man scares Martin. He wonders if one day he will end up on the wrong end of that sword.

Corvo holds himself… oddly. Like he’s trying not to let his arms or legs touch each other. His lips are clamped shut, breathing heavily through his nose, and he rocks slightly where he stands. Havelock thanks him for his work, ensuring he stays at least five paces away from him, then directs him to the bathrooms. As Martin watches him retreat once again, upon closer inspection, he notices that Corvo is shaking. It’s not a cold day, far from it. His reddened eyes indicate he is in some distress.

Bidding his farewells to Havelock, Martin tracks Corvo as he makes a beeline for the bath, not entirely sure of what he’s planning on doing, and walks from room to room, always staying within earshot, nodding politely at Callista, Wallace and Cecelia as they flit here and there, changing bedding, cleaning floors, restocking medicines and food.

The task takes much longer than Martin anticipates.

Ten minutes turn into thirty and the water in the bathtub is still running. Thirty minutes turns into an hour, which turns into two hours and then into three. Concern begins to grow in Martin’s mind. He can hear something, some noise mixed in with the sound of the running water, a gasping-hitching pattern of breath and sporadic whimpering. He wonders briefly if he should ask Corvo if he’s alright, and after a cycle of faltering and re-convincing himself, he finally knocks on the bathroom door, a short, sharp series of raps.

The crying stops abruptly, and after a moment the knock is repeated back at Martin and Corvo emerges, a towel wrapped around his waist laying bare all the torture he endured under Burrows and Campbell, the welts and scars still all red and fresh and angry, his clothes sodden, his hair limp and scraggly. He barely gives Martin any acknowledgement before he stalks off, back to his room, his head held higher than Martin has seen it before.

Curiosity overcomes him, and he enters the bathroom. The floor is slippery with water and soap and wet towels. A bar of soap, reduced to nothing more than a sliver, sits on the side of the bath, slippery and wet but mostly clean. This strikes Martin as odd. He believes the soap has been replaced by Lydia already this morning, but he writes the concern off as unjustified, rationalising in his head that other people might have been using the bathroom too.

To that extent?

Maybe not.

He makes a mental note, reminding himself to report to Havelock what he has witnessed this afternoon. Corvo doesn’t seem entirely mentally stable, and although a great asset, Martin feels uneasy about using a man like this for their own gain.

He turns and leaves the bathroom again. Cecelia will be annoyed when she finds the mess, but it’s hardly Martin’s problem. The steam in the room slowly escapes out the door and into the corridor and Martin’s boots squeak on the tiles as he turns on his heels and heads downstairs.


	5. Treavor Pendleton

These days, when Corvo gets back from his missions, most of the Loyalists gather at the dock, watch and wait for news as the _Amaranth_ ducks in and out from between the waves. This has never been intentional; rather it is a ritual that grew into existence as Callista waited for news on her uncle Geoff’s whereabouts when Corvo dispatched Campbell. Treavor, as much as he deigns not to partake in habits like these with people he considers below him, joins them at the dock this time, stands by Martin and Havelock as the whirring of the engine draws closer, bringing with it the man who has already tried, tested and found his brothers wanting.

He chastises himself for it; for obsessing over their fate. His brothers, the bane of his life as a child and his tormentors, those who from a young age instilled such a sense of inferiority and worthlessness in him that even now he drinks to quiet their voices in his head. Why should he care of their fate?

Still, his stomach flutters. He cannot wait until later to seek out Samuel and ask him of the news. He must know _now._

As the boat draws closer still he sees a shock of black hair framed with a white hairpiece and topped with a bow. A girl. The rightful Empress, Emily Kaldwin - it is strange to think of this child as the soon-to-be ruler of the Empire, of all these isles with their different but so very similar strifes and struggles. She sits in the boat, back straight, head held high, prim and proper and next to her sits Corvo Attano, her Royal Protector. He looks haggard and thin and slouches in his seat next to her, sharing the little shelter offered by his coat, but even from here, Treavor can _tell_ he’s changed. He can’t even see his face but he knows Corvo smiles beneath the mask.

Treavor thinks it’s creepy nonetheless.

Corvo helps Emily off the boat first, steadying it against the stone path for her, holding out a hand in case she falls, and only when he knows she’s safely on dry land does he allow Samuel to help him up. 

Although Corvo clearly doesn’t _mind_ being seen without his mask, usually taking it off isn’t a priority to him, but this time he reaches up and pulls it from his face, revealing a bloody nose, a split lip, a dark purple bruise blooming across the right side of his face, and a smile. He kneels down and embraces Emily tightly; it is abundantly clear that this is what Corvo has been sustaining himself for.

“Sorry about your brothers, Treavor,” Samuel says as he walks past, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezing, “I know you wanted to see them again.”

Treavor’s stomach drops. Suddenly the scene in front of him, Corvo’s elation at Emily’s safety, his renewed sense of purpose and that _godawful_ smile make his blood _boil._ It makes him want to rage and scream and fight and _demand to know_ why he couldn’t _bother_ to make the _effort_ of sparing them their lives, but…

But instead, he turns and stalks off. This is not a fight he can win.

Later than evening, Havelock informs Treavor that Corvo put a sword through their throats and bled them like animals while at their most vulnerable. He informs Treavor that Corvo sought them out one-at-a-time and ignored their pleas for mercy and left their bodies out in the open as a _warning_ for those who might cross the Empress. He informs Treavor that their disposal will be good for their cause, but he can’t help but wonder why Corvo didn’t find another way.

When Havelock leaves, Treavor exits the Hound Pits and sits on the rocks by the Wrenhaven, not too far from the building where the dogs used to fight, and watches the whaling ships as they sail silently by like ghosts on the water. After some time, he hears a faint splashing by the docks and spots Corvo sitting at the end of the little stone pier, staring out across the river at Dunwall Palace, eating a tin of brined hagfish. He picks it apart carefully, inspecting it closely with his fork before allowing himself to eat; an odd ritual that seems nonsensical to Treavor.

It doesn’t matter anyway.

He’s too busy hoping Corvo chokes himself to death on it.


End file.
